I can now foresee
the rays of the spotlight
drenching you in the warmth
of Manhattan's promising neon rain.

O, precious little sunflower,
you're not yet ready for picking;
planted in a fertile bed of dreams
and spreading daylight for the weary.

I know the future holds
the rays of earned success
that transcend us weeds of disappointment
and bring forth the seed of gold within you.